Fire Watcher's Words
Few people in this city know that the Platinum Hyatt, a top-tier hotel in a prime location, once had a much older and more prestigious name: Jinxi Hall. It wasn't part of a large hotel group, but rather a private property passed down through generations of the Ye family. Ye Shu, formerly known as Ye Jinshu, was the last legitimate "young master" of this vast, palace-like building.
His childhood wasn't spent amidst the everyday comforts of ordinary homes, but rather amidst polished marble floors, silent, respectful servants, and an air perpetually filled with the scent of cedar and leather. He wasn't taught children's songs and comics; he was taught to appreciate the age of porcelain, to listen to the distinct sounds of different vintages of red wine dripping into a glass, and to discern the identity and intentions of guests from the subtle details of collars and cuffs during a toast. His world was precisely divided into countless invisible grids, with every word and action marked.
He wasn't unintelligent. On the contrary, he understood too much too soon. He saw the weariness and calculation behind his father's smile, the emptiness and sorrow beneath his mother's jewels and finery, and the greed and envy hidden in the flattering words of the guests. He was like a delicate instrument placed at the center of a magnificent stage, silently recording the operating logic and cracks behind all the splendor.
The rift widened silently. First, a long-standing supplier of thirty years suddenly turned against the company, embroiled in a quality scandal. Then, bank lending inexplicably tightened. Then, several of the company's most capable senior employees resigned due to "illness" or were poached for high salaries. The stock market began to publish incredibly accurate short-selling reports targeting the Ye Group. Rumors surged like an undercurrent within the so-called upper echelons of society.
Ye Jinshu (himself at that time) watched with cold eyes. He watched his father rush around, his temples turning white overnight. He watched his mother try to maintain her dignity, selling her private jewelry to fill the gap. He watched as the "old friends" who used to greet him with smiles now shunned him, even taking advantage of his misfortune. He once tried to speak up, using some details he had noticed to remind his father of the glint in one of his partners' eyes, but all he got was an irritated scolding: "What do you know, kid?"
He truly understood. He understood that this seemingly impregnable prosperity was built on a fragile network of relationships and fluid capital. Trust could be easily betrayed, and friendships were as thin as paper in the face of profit. The so-called family glory was nothing more than a castle on the beach, crumbling at the coming tide.
The final collapse was swift and complete. A hostile takeover involving foreign capital, a massive, rigged guarantee... the vast Ye family business empire crumbled in a matter of months. "Jinxitang" was eventually renamed "Boyue," sporting the logo of an international hotel. The Ye family sold off every salable asset, but still saddled with massive debts, they left the business in disgrace, their whereabouts unknown.
Only Ye Jinshu stayed. He rejected all offers of resettlement, whether genuine or feigned, and dismissed his last servant. He bought an apartment in the most ordinary part of the city, with no view at all.
He discarded all his finery, wearing only the simplest cotton and linen. He burned the family albums and all the documents that recorded past glories. He shed the character "Jin" (Jin) and left only "Shu" (Shu). Distant, distant, distant.
He had stood on the crumbling ruins, feeling not anger or sorrow but an extreme, icy clarity. It was as if he had parted layers of fog and finally seen the foundations of the world—impermanence, emptiness, and the cycle of cause and effect. All struggles, attachments, love and hate, before the torrent of time and its absolute laws, were like moths to a flame, fleeting and futile.
He hadn't become heartless, but his emotions had lost their anchor. The enormity of his loss had emptied him of any remaining attachment to worldly values. He no longer "participated" in the game, choosing instead to become a complete "observer." He observed the gathering and dispersal of clouds, the trajectory of dust, and the joys and sorrows of life—as if watching a movie whose ending was already known.
His insight, that almost divine intuition, wasn't a gift, but a byproduct of this profound loss. It was the result of a person stripped of the filters of desire and fear, leaving their perceptions absolutely pure and sharp. He could see things for what they were, and sense the subtle dissonances within a system, because he had witnessed the collapse of entire systems.
He chooses not to contend, having witnessed firsthand the ultimate vanity of contention. He relishes solitude, for it is the most honest and undeceptive state. Though seemingly indifferent, he embraces a broader, more compassionate vision, embracing the inevitable comings and goings and impermanence of the world.
Ye Shu, once the heir to the ruins of a prosperous city, is now a silent spectator of the human drama. His name is the epitaph he chose for himself and his declaration of redefining existence.
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